


Hell is Empty and All the Devils Are Here

by theroyalsavage



Category: Akatsuki no Yona | Yona of the Dawn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Although really what's the difference, Demons, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, and college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4708490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroyalsavage/pseuds/theroyalsavage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a supreme act of kindness, Yona saves a man she finds bleeding in an alleyway. However, it quickly becomes clear that Hak is not quite what he appears to be, and, in rescuing him, she ends up with a little bit more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell is Empty and All the Devils Are Here

It is raining the night they meet, soft and misting, more of an afterthought than a true storm. Yona dodges puddles, her head down, her hair tucked under the hood of her coat and her book bag tucked under her arm.

She picked a bad day to wear her nice boots, she thinks, ruefully, as she jogs along the deserted sidewalk. The rest of her outfit is nothing special - jeans and a sweatshirt advertising for Kouka University across the front - but her boots are  _quality_ , a little stylish, a lot expensive. She should’ve checked the weather forecast.

She’s been at the library studying for what feels like days, trying achieve the quintessential college feat of cramming a semester’s worth of biology into her brain in half a day. Now she’s running on three hours of sleep and four cups of coffee, moving towards her dorm on fumes and willpower alone.

The rain comes harder. Thunder rumbles in the distance, like a bassline, like a promise.

Yona lowers her head and moves faster.

And then it starts coming down in earnest, like a switch has been flipped. Sheets of rain dump down from the sky, icy against Yona’s skin. It’s like trying to peer through a curtain, like being plunged underwater. Yona stumbles, clutching her bag closer to her body, and starts to sprint. She needs to get under shelter; her notes will get soaked if she stays out in this any longer, and her prospects for an A in the class along with them.

So she ducks into an alleyway, covered by an old, dilapidated awning, and tucks herself away, hands on her knees, gasping for breath.

The rain is loud on the awning overhead, drumming insistent fingers on the fabric. It’s half a whisper and half a scream, and it fills Yona’s mind, pounding beats onto her brain.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

That’s why takes her a second to realize that her set of ragged breathing isn’t the only one.

It’s a miracle she doesn’t scream, or pass out on the spot. Through the gloom, there’s a _man_  sitting slumped against the wall, a hand pressed to his stomach, his head drooping low. It’s hard to tell in the poor lighting, but it almost looks like he’s sleeping.

A leak opens over Yona’s head and water drips onto her cheek, tracing its way down her skin slowly, like a tear.

She takes a step closer, leaning forward a little to inspect the man.

And then his eyes snap open.

She does yelp this time, readying herself to make a break for it. But he’s on her before she can take a step, one hand clasped over her mouth, the other still clutching his stomach.

His face is twisted into a pained grimace, and she realizes with a shock that there’s blood seeping out between his fingers, slick and maroon-black in the half-light.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers against his hand.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses back. His eyes are on the exit to the alleyway, darting back and forth like he’s surveying something, like he’s waiting.

“You’re  _bleeding_ ,” she says back. His gaze snaps from the exit to her, and she visibly flinches back, her breath catching painfully in her throat.

His eyes are luminescent,  _glowing_ , the brightest shade of pale blue Yona’s ever seen. The pupils are close to slits, full of something primal and fierce and  _terrifying_. Like nothing Yona’s ever seen before. Like nothing _human_.

She is registering now, far too late, that there is something seriously  _wrong_  with this man.

The eyes are one thing, striking even in this low light. But as she squints at him, she begins to process other things, too; his face is too symmetrical, the lines of his cheekbones and nose and jaw too deliberate, the set of his mouth too feral to be handsome. His hair is long and dark and messy, but not long enough to conceal the pattern of tattoos down the side of his neck that look almost like the scales of some kind of snake or dragon. And he’s wearing  _robes_  - real, actual robes, like you’d seen in the costume department on the set of a movie.

There is a staff, topped with a nasty-looking blade, propped up against the wall, and it takes Yona a second to realize that it, too, is dripping blood.

“What  _are_  you?” she gasps.

“I thought I told you to _shut up-_ ” he begins, but the words die in his throat as he sways on his feet. Yona lunges forward in time to catch him, the breath going out of her in a huff as he lands hard on her shoulder.

She lowers him to the ground as gently as she can. Her hands come away from his torso dripping crimson.

He’s shaking, his whole body racked with violent tremors. She makes up her mind on the spot, ripping away the fear pulsing through her veins, detaching herself from it.

“Stay still,” she breathes. “I’m going to help you.”

The man grits his teeth, those striking eyes fluttering shut. Yona pulls the folds of his robe aside, exposing flat, hard muscles ( _dear lord_ ) and a mess of scar tissue, ripping up and down the skin like torn paper.

She swallows her revulsion and horror and tears a thick strip of fabric from his sleeve, preparing to bind the wound.

He reaches up and yanks her down, close to his mouth. His breath is warm on her cheek; Yona’s face feels too hot.

“You,” he groans, “need to get out of here.”

“Like hell,” Yona says, agreeably, gently extracting herself from his grasp. “You’re hurt.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I’m not kidding. You need to run. Go.  _Now_.”

The violence in his voice startles her, and she flinches back a little bit before going back to tightening the makeshift bandage around his stomach. Her hands are sticky with his blood, coated with it, and he looks almost desperate as his eyes search her face, his chest heaving.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she tells him kindly.

He blinks. “You’re an idiot.”

“ _Excuse_  me?  _I’m_  not the one bleeding out on the street.”

He huffs air out through his nose. She gives a weak little giggle.

“My name’s Yona,” she says, tying off the binding. She sits back, wiping her bloodied hands on her jeans, and inspects her handiwork. “What’s yours?”

His eyebrows furrow and he hesitates a long time before muttering, “Hak.”

“Hak?” She snorts. “Really?”

“It’s a perfectly respectable name,” he grumps. And she supposes it is. It does sort of fit him, in a weird kind of way - blunt and brief and to the point, but a little bit musical. A little bit  _extra_.

“What happened to you, anyway?” she asks, tucking a lock of violently red hair behind her ear.

And then, from outside the alleyway, there is the clatter of rushing footsteps, barks of distant voices. Hak groans and begins to sit up; Yona moves to push him back down, but he brushes her off, getting to his feet and grabbing his sword-staff-thing from the wall.

“You’re about to find out,” he says, grimly.

The alleyway explodes.

There is a crunching noise, an immense crumbling of falling brick and stone. Yona is hit hard by something in the stomach, and at first she thinks she’s being piled under rubble, but then she realizes it’s Hak, that he’s grabbed her around the waist and lifted her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“ _Hey_ ,” she shouts, “let me down, you’ll hurt yourself again-”

They don’t go far. No sooner have they escaped the collapsing alleyway than they are surrounded, the wall of brick behind them and men in front, all cloaked in black, with gleaming swords and shining chains and pointed, dangerous stares.

_Is this some sort of exam-induced hallucination? Because, if so, I should probably try and cut back on the caffeine before bed._

One man, larger than the rest, steps forward. He’s big and ugly, bearded and scowling, his head rather boxy, his eyes hungry. He’s draped in what looks like finery from the feudal era, an elaborate kimono with richly printed fabrics, a sheath of arrows hanging off his back.

He points his bow at Hak’s chest.

“Demon General Son Hak. King Soo-Won will be pleased to see you.” He grins a twisted, unamused grin. “Pleased to see your head on a pike, that is.”

“ _Demon_  General?” Yona repeats. Hak sighs and sets her down on her feet, pushing her behind him, so that she stands between him and the wall.

Hak drops into a slightly awkward bow. “I missed you, too, boys. Come on, now - treason can’t really be worth  _capital punishment_. How medieval.”

“Hold your tongue!”

Hak bats his eyes. “You could hold it for me.”

Yona follows his movements, the way he winces almost imperceptibly with every twitch of a muscle, every bat of an eye.

“Hak,” she whispers.

“Stay behind me,” he instructs, in a low voice intended just for her.

Yona’s breath catches in her chest.

And that is the last thing she understands before it all descends into chaos, mayhem punctuated by flashing eyes and the clang of metal against metal. The world is full of screams, vicious battle cries that sound more animal than human, the dying throes of a beast the size of the sky. Yona squeezes her eyes shut, backs up until her back hits the rock and she can slide to the ground and curl into a ball, her face buried against her knees.

He’s going to die, she realizes. He’s just one, seriously injured guy and he’s facing twenty well-armed men and  _Jesus Christ he’s going to die_.

But the clash of sword on sword doesn’t stop, and she finally musters her courage to open one eye and peer up at him.

“Oh, my God,” Yona whispers.

Hak fights like nighttime, like the wind, and she cannot take her eyes off him.

His every movement is graceful, sweeping, perfectly timed. He’s like a dancer, cutting down man after man, his mouth twitched up into the ghost of a smile. His eyes meet hers, once, and he winks before twirling around and catching one of his attackers in the side with his staff, sweeping him into two of him comrades and knocking them all off their feet.

The air smells coppery and sickly-sweet. The scent is everywhere, in Yona’s nostrils, on her clothes, inside her mind.

He’s driving them back, inch by inch. He’s  _winning_.

A blur of black. A flash of metal. A blow to Yona’s face, blinding, tear-wrenching. It knocks her to the ground, and she looks up in time to see a blade traveling in an arc towards her head.

“ _Hak!_ ” she screams. “ _Help me_!”

The darkness erupts into light.

Her attacker freezes and spins around, and Yona turns to watch, too, as forks of lightning descend from the heavens, striking Hak one after another after another. Yona screams, wind bursting through the street, and the lightning races up Hak’s arms, all over his body, forking through his hair, dancing on his staff.

The big man, Hak’s main attacker, screams, “ _Shit_!”

Hak’s shoulders straighten. His eyes flash, brighter than they were before, burning blue. He rolls his neck, spins his staff around in his hands like a baton, his almost-smile becoming a full-fledged, deadly grin. Yona stares in shock as the blood on his stomach retracts, like watching a film on rewind, and he yanks the makeshift bandage off and tosses it aside, revealing unbroken, unscarred skin.

She understands, suddenly, like  _she_ was the one struck by lightning. “ _Yōkai_ ,” she whispers.  _Ayakashi_. _Devil_.

Yona presses a hand to her mouth. The scale-like tattoo on his neck is glowing now.

Red-hot pain forks across her collarbone and she gasps and doubles over, clutching at it. There is a glow on  _her_ skin, too, visible even through the thick fabric of her sweatshirt, the same scaly, almost  _floral_  design.

Thunder roars, directly overhead.

She barely sees the rest of the battle, it happens so quickly. One second, the street is packed; the next, it is empty. There are no bodies; if Yona didn’t know better, she could swear that they are dissolving into ash when Hak stabs them, blown away by the wind. The thunder rumbles one last time, and then the sky is clearing, the clouds parting and the last raindrops falling, and the lightning still crackling across Hak’s skin fades away.

Yona rubs at the mark on her shoulder, scratching at it with a fingernail. It’s a little itchy, but it doesn’t feel like ink or paint. It’s like it’s part of her skin, like she was born with it.

Hak flips his staff one more time and then slings it over his shoulder, surveying the empty street like a proud worker looks at a job well done. Then he glances over his shoulder at her.

His eyes light on the mark and he sighs. “I figured it would be something like that.”

“What?” Yona demands. “What is this? What just  _happened_?”

Hak shrugs, offers her a grin that shows off too-sharp canines. “A life for a life, or so they say. One good turn deserves another.” When she continues to stare at him blankly, he sighs and elaborates: “You saved my life, and then you asked me to save yours.” He gestures impatiently at their matching tattoos. “We’re connected.”

“Connected?” she repeats.

He laughs and crosses over to crouch in front of her, his staff slung lazily over his shoulders. “I believe this makes me your familiar.”

“ _What_?!”

“Well, actually, to seal the pact, we have to kiss-”

Yona screeches, “ _WHAT_?!”

He laughs again, and the sound is rich and warm. Yona never wants to stop hearing it. “I’m kidding, Princess. That was a joke. God, are you really this gullible, or am I just special?”

Yona sniffs, trying to calm her racing heart rate. “What a way to treat someone who saved your life.”

Hak smiles and reaches out suddenly to tuck that stray lock of hair behind her ears. “You have interesting hair, Princess.”

“You’re a demon and you’re telling me I have interesting hair.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, now.”

Hak helps her to her feet and, before she can protest, sweeps her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest. He’s warm and solid and his touch is immeasurably gentle.

“Onward and upward,” he announces.

“If you made me late for dinner,” she says pleasantly, “I’m going to kill you myself, Hak.”

He grins down at her. “I feel like that’s fair.”

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on my Tumblr about a million years ago and am finally getting around to posting it on here, so please forgive me this is a relic from days gone by.


End file.
